


Festis bei umo canavarum

by crystalrequiem



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Broken!Hawke, Broody sometimes has the idiot ball, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Somewhat graphic injury, protective friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalrequiem/pseuds/crystalrequiem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke's getting tired. He's tired of all the death, all the fake smiles and the brave acts. He really just wants to sleep--he wants to be with his family again. The Arishok's invasion comes at a convenient time, and he feels like if he can see this through, he can leave his friends behind in good conscience. There's no reason to stay any longer.</p><p>In which Hawke is good at acting, and Fenris makes an arse of himself without meaning to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mage

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!  
> Sooo... this is a thing. I'm testing the waters to see if you guys would actually want to read this? If I get enough of a response I'll post the second chapter. It's just a thing. the second chapter has been elusive to my muse. :/ I was hopin' a little positive reinforcement could help me out
> 
> anyway, this takes place in a reality where Carver died outside Lothering, Bethany died in the deep roads and of course the whole creepy zombie mom thing occured. Fenris was romanced, but too tied up in his own memories and not realizing what it would do to hawke so soon after losing his mother, he left after the first night.
> 
> this fic is based on that idea--the observation that no matter what happens to poor Hawke, Fenris leaves you at the end of Act 2 before the Qunari invasion. It seemed rather cruel of him. I decided to explore things from Hawke's POV and this monstrosity ensued. 
> 
> TLDR: Ya'll like it, I'll post more.

When he felt Aveline tug on his elbow, saw the look of grim acceptance on the Arishok’s broad face, he knew that this had gone horribly wrong. He ran with the rest of the guards in a frantic race to the gates, lances raining down on them all thicker than any summer storm. He heard men dying around him and had no time to stop, no time to look for help and no way to turn around with Aveline leading him by the arm. _Though he was pretty sure that if he just stood still and let them hit, he’d have enough blood and enough power in his dying breath to take them all out. He could stop this war right here, if he only dared use blood magic. It was so close. He knew exactly the way to push his power through his own life force. Exactly the way to—_  


Hawke stumbled just once, but it served to be his undoing. The moment he slipped, something punched him in the side hard enough to knock him into Aveline. She kept him upright without even glancing in his direction, her grip sure and strong. He was grateful to her—he would have fallen if he’d been alone. His world shifted as they ran, images swimming into a realm of grayscale and slow motion. Whatever had hit him had left him achingly sore, vision tunneling, each motion he made tugging at the edges of the wound and smarting like a terrible bruise. It took him a few sluggish moments to realize that the blow had been a lance, that it was the blade scraping against his ribs that made putting one foot in front of the other so difficult all of the sudden.  


As if understanding it had summoned the pain, the moment he was able to comprehend what had happened he was flooded with ripping agony, tearing up his side and stopping his breath. He could feel the blade stirring his entrails, tearing his flesh. Almost in shock, he could do nothing but continue on, one foot in front of the other. Each step was a tug of the wound. His lungs pumped air almost violently in and out, whole body moving with the effort. The two rhythms of running and breathing jarred the embedded weapon at a jangling, inconstant beat, not quite predictable—not quite something he could acclimate to and push passed. He knew there was a way to make it stop—that if he only dared to search it out there was a demon in the Fade waiting for him to beg for help— _that he could control it. The pain would stop and the wound would heal and the blood, oh, the blood was so full of magic. It was singing, couldn’t he hear it?_  


Hawke tore his consciousness from the brink of the fade. The hurt and the blood plopping sickening to the ground with every step had him tipping dangerously close to dreaming, but he had enough will to see this through. He only had to think of his mother’s dying breath to know he’d die before taking even a step towards blood magic. Still, the way out stretched endlessly forward. He thought he’d spend an eternity being dragged along through too-narrow streets and dank back alleys. It was only his need to protect Aveline and sheer adrenaline that kept him from passing out then and there.  


Eventually, by some miracle, they lost their Qunari pursuers. Hawke wasn’t aware enough to know it, but he’d learn later that they’d practically flown through the Qunari gates and the Docks, managed to trek through several blocks of Lowtown before stumbling to a stop.  


“Maker take them all!” The Captain cursed, letting go of him at last as they rounded the final corner. Hawke collapsed against the wall behind him not a second later, but it brought him no relief. Falling against the stone only served to jar his wound again. It was all he could do to remember how to breathe. He slid bonelessly down the alley wall, body shaking with shock. He wished he could just go to sleep, dream forever and forget the rest of the world, but he couldn’t stop here. Not just yet. Especially not when he knew there was something waiting for him on the other side, all too excited to see him slip up.  


If he was going to keep moving, this damn lance was going to have to go. Hawke wrapped his hands around the shaft as best he could, to see if he could move it. No such luck; the limb on his injured side wasn’t responding well enough to be of any use. Hawke’s fingers thudded clumsily against the wood, flooding him with tiny thrums of hot agony. He wanted it out. He felt irrationally like crying.  


“Those were good men.” Aveline was talking to him, but he was too far gone in the maddening haze of pain and panic to hear her. She’d been facing away from him since they started running, probably didn’t even know he was hurt. He couldn’t think well enough to tell her. “Void take the blasted Arishok, I swear on all that I am that this will not go un—” She turned at just the right second “Hawke!” Aveline gasped as she caught sight of his predicament. She must have been too focused on her rage and her lost men to notice his new attachment during their run. He wasn’t sure if that was a testament to his ability to persevere, a statement as to her obliviousness or an insult to his normal state of fitness. Probably it was a combination of the three. The world seldom held simple answers, after all.  


“Hawke.” She repeated again, swallowing, as if his name were an anchor to hold her to reality. He wanted to laugh as much as cry, and wasn’t sure why. Aveline seemed terrified at the very sight of him. So then, it must have looked every bit as terrible as it felt. He tried to spare her a chuckle, but he could scarcely get enough air to breathe. His mind was only half focused—currently this efforts were tied up in trying to tug the damned shaft out. There was no way he could heal himself with the thing still there. He needed it gone. But the arm closest to the wound didn’t appear to want to cooperate, and the other was so weak that he could do nothing more than wiggle the spear sticking out of his side, sending jolts of excruciating sensation through his entire body with every pull.  


“Aveline, could—could you—” She rushed into motion at the sound of his voice, dropping her shield in her haste. Hawke shifted to try to give her more access to the wound.  


“No, Hawke don’t—” The warning came too late. His attempt to move jarred the butt of the lance against the ground, replacing his senses with pain pain pain until the world faded away and the hurt and the dark was all that existed. At least this way he was too addled to hear any demon’s honeyed words.  


“Don’t you do this to me now, Hawke!” Aveline dragged him back to reality with a harsh slap, the sting forcing his mind to pull all its shattered fragments back from the void. Hawke focused on her face to give himself something to anchor to. “I am going to pull this shaft on the count of three, and you are not going to pass out. That is an order Hawke.” She demanded, her voice uncharacteristically frantic. He hated that he’d done this to her—his cool-headed Aveline. Such a good friend. A good sister.  


“Aye, Captain,” He gasped, granting her a wry smile. She didn’t return the gesture. Woman needed to learn to lighten up.  


“…three.” She counted with an even voice, yanked the wood and steel free from its bed in Hawk’s side before his body could comprehend what she was doing. He nearly bit his own tongue trying to weather the agony that followed, but he didn’t slip back under into the dark. Aveline’s warm grip on his shoulder kept him grounded.  


“Glad you’re here.” He slurred, drunk on pain. The guard captain didn’t spare his words a moment’s notice. She was already pulling his shirt away from the wound as gently as she could, removing fabric from the places where it had become stuck to his insides. Hawke worked very hard not to scream each time she touched the raw flesh and exposed bone. “You know what would be really good right now?” He asked, his thoughts floating in a hundred different places all at once. He didn’t expect her to answer him, but he liked the sound of his own voice just now. Liked the warmth of his own breath against the pallet of his throat. “A flagon of ale would be amazing.” He choked on the last word, wincing as she pulled away a particularly blood-sodden scrap.  


“Sorry Hawke.” She tossed the apology out without meaning it. Aveline was always all about her work. All duty. That was why Donnic was so good for her.  


“Seriously though, I—mmph.” He had to stop talking or risk his words dissolving into embarrassing wails of pain. Hawke snapped his mouth closed with an audible clack, muffled his voice with the back of his still functioning arm. He managed to maintain some semblance of dignity until the very end, when the shock had settled comfortably in his mind, and his pride had lost all meaning. Hawke could do nothing to stop the weak whimpers that escaped him by the time Aveline cut the last of his shirt away, but she said nothing about how pathetic he sounded. Good woman, Aveline.  


“Heal.” She grabbed his good hand and held it just above the wound, didn’t comment on the places where he’d bitten through his own skin to stifle the pain. “Heal, soldier!” She commanded, and Hawke almost didn’t listen. How easy would it be to simply fade away here? “Hawke, you are not allowed to die on me. Not now. Heal.” She was pleading with him. And somewhere outside of his failing mental faculties he knew she was right. He had a responsibility to see them all out of this.  


Hawke reached for his magic and pushed, too out of his head to remember how to be careful and efficient with its use. He wound up flooding them both with healing energy, curing minor scratches and muscle aches and his gaping wound all to the same degree. The result was a tenuous, still-oozing scab over too-hastily knitted muscles. He hadn’t been able to do anything about the notches in his ribs, but he had somewhat miraculously managed to reaffix his entrails without issue. It was by no means the best healing job, not even for Hawke’s meager skills, but he was in no danger of bleeding to death.  


“Whoops.” He mumbled once he’d found the strength to speak again. His magic was nothing more than a faint buzz at the edge of his psyche; he’d used too much of it. It would be sluggish to return. Aveline was blinking beside him, a little overwhelmed by the healing magic he’d just washed her in, but no worse for wear. She scanned his side one more time, appraising his work. Sighing in relief, she dug out one of their emergency healing tinctures from its hidden place at her waist. It did nothing but lessen the small amount of blood still eking out to clot, but it did much more to soothe the pain than Hawke could manage. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as the stuff turned cool against his inflamed skin.  


“We’ll have to get moving quickly. Every templar and Asaad in the city will have sensed your display just now,” She teased. Hawke chuckled back, tried to use the wall behind himself to stand, but he was still too weak. Aveline stopped him with a careful hand on his shoulder. “Wait.” She removed the kerchief from its eternal place about her neck, and after a little thought, began tearing it to shreds. “This would be a lot easier if we’d brought Anders along.” She fussed as she tied strips of handkerchief together quickly and carefully. Hawke saw his own blood covering her steady hands. It smeared along the fabric as she worked.  


“Should have argued with the guards longer.” Hawke agreed, jovially. “Would have been an easier fight if they’d turned on us sooner anyway.” He managed not to wince when she wrapped the few loops of bandage she’d managed to craft around the wound, finishing her work with a tight knot and a glare. Don’t do this again, her eyes said, panicked. Hawke understood what she couldn’t say.  


“That will have to do for now.” She grunted, pushing herself to her feet before reaching down and lifting the mage by the waist. The wound at his side pulled rather uncomfortably, but his shoddy healing didn’t split back open. He could weather this. “Let’s find the others, and regroup.” She coached, trying to make sure he stayed alert and aware despite the hurt and the blood loss. He didn’t know where he would be without her. (Dead, most likely.) He watched her pick her shield up from the ground. “We’ll figure out what to do after we know our situation.”  


“Lead the way,” He chimed, trying to remember how to stand on his own power. It took about twenty shaky steps for him to be able to walk without leaning against the wall of the alley, forty more for him to be able to let go of Aveline’s shoulder, but he managed. He had a mission to find his friends and see them all safe. He would not fail. If they ran into any enemies, it would be tricky going, but… he could do this.  


“Hawke!” Varric and Fenris stepped out of the shadows to meet them somewhere just before the Docks met Lowtown. The dwarf was shouldering his beloved Bianca. “Son of a nug, Hawke, I thought you were a Qunari. I almost shot you!” Oh. Oh, it hurt to laugh.  


“Wouldn’t be the first time today!” He chortled, even as he winced. Aveline seemed considerably less amused.  


“I don’t suppose Anders was playing cards with you when this mess happened?” She asked, voice terse.  


“No, couldn’t get him to leave his clinic.” Varric’s answer left Aveline swearing colorfully, elf and dwarf shooting her wary, suspicious looks. “Why? Did someone get—“  


“Wait. What do you mean it, ‘wouldn’t be the first time?’” Fenris interrupted. As always, the warrior’s voice sent a pang of bittersweet longing through Hawke’s being. Stop it stop it, he is not yours to wish for.  


“Just the usual sort of thing. Nothing to worry over. All in a day’s work,” he chimed, making no effort to hide the shoddy bandage job wrapping around his side or his torn and bloody robes. If he tried to keep it secret, they’d only worry more. Especially Fenris. Though only the maker knew why Fenris cared at all—he killed your heart didn’t he? Why wouldn’t he want to finish the job?  
Varric whistled at the sight of the ripped robe and the blood. No doubt he’d have a good yarn going on the subject by this time tomorrow.  


“Do you need to hang back until we can find Blondie? Shouldn’t be too hard to cover for you with me and Broody here now.”  


“No,” his refusal was immediate and assured, perhaps too much so. He was making them nervous and he knew it, but Hawke couldn’t help himself. The very thought of sitting back and letting his friends take the brunt of the Qunari’s attacks… he couldn’t stand it. Not when he was pretty sure this was all his fault somehow. If he’d been a better negotiator, or been able to convince Isabella to hand the book over or… or… ugh he didn’t know how, but he was sure he could have done something somewhere! And he wouldn’t have them paying for his mistakes. He’d keep them far from this madness if he could—the ones he’d sworn to protect. They were all he had. “No, it’s not a big deal, I was able to heal it myself eariler. Aveline’s just being a bit paranoid.”  


“Hawke.” Aveline’s chastising glare was severe enough to stop most men in their tracks. Hawke was not most men. He stared pleadingly back. If he had it his way, he’d keep his friends out of this whole battle, but he knew that wouldn’t work. At least if they had to be involved, he didn’t want them worrying over him, distracted while they fought such formidable foes. “Hawke will be fine, once he rests.” His captain hissed, bowing her proud neck. Her dedication to her men and morale worked in his favor this time.  


Thank you, he wanted to whisper, but he knew the others would be suspicious. He hoped his eyes conveyed the sentiment well enough. When he glanced back at Fenris he found the elf peering back with narrowed eyes, his green gaze heavily laced with suspicion.  


“Seriously, I’m fine.” He smiled for the elf’s benefit, un-hitched his staff from the holster at his back. The wound at his side complained rather uncomfortably when he lifted his arm like that, even more so with the weight of his weapon in his hand, but he didn’t flinch. He kept his expression of pain to nothing more than tense muscles and the faintest twitch of his eyelashes.  


“So you are.” Fenris rumbled in his way, the only one among his friends who remained unappeased and frowning.  


“Why are you looking at me like that?” The warrior actually seemed to be considering his words for once. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, brow furrowed. Hawke had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what came next.  


“That… is a lot of blood.” His voice was low and accusing as he motioned to the stain in Hawke’s robes. “And yet it is as you say. You are ‘fine.’”  


“Yes…?” He wasn’t sure where Fenris was going with this.  


“Did you know blood mages often stab themselves in the stomach with their own staves? A good hemorrhaging wound there gives them more power than a cut on the palm can, without completely incapacitating them like slitting the throat might.” Wait… was… was Fenris actually saying…? Hawke felt all the air rush out of him, and not because of his wound. He could do little but watch Fenris’s mouth move, each word hurt more and more.  


“Fenris, stop.” Aveline tried to cut in, but the elf was not to be halted.  


“The demon within them heals the wound before it can send the mage into shock, leaving only a ghost of the injury behind.” Fenris finished, eyes filled with fear and uncertainty. He searched Hawke’s face for some time after his last word had been spoken, waiting. For what, Hawke didn’t know. He could do little more than stare back, hunched protectively around the throbbing organ in his chest. Whatever Fernis was searching for, he didn’t find it. He turned away after what seemed like an eternity, apparently too disgusted with what he thought had occurred to remain. He didn’t say anything further, storming to the mouth of the alley.  


“That is not what happened!” The guard captain jumped to Hawke’s defense at the last moment, just before their companion turned the corner.  


“Then what did?” He heard the desperate tone in Fenris’s voice, knew the elf was lingering there at the space where ally met street, just waiting for him to deny the accusations placed upon him, but he couldn’t speak. He could hardly breathe.  


“The honor guard attacked while—” Aveline tried again, at the same time Varric offered a tentative,  


“Broody, I think you might be over—” They both stared at Hawke as they spoke, carefully watching his stricken expression. Somewhere under the dull numbness of shock he was grateful to them for the attempt, but he knew it wouldn’t succeed.  


“I wasn’t asking you!” He couldn’t see the elf, but he could imagine the way Fenris would gesture with both hands, his sword waving dangerously, nearly scraping the alley wall, but not, because Fenris was better than that. “Hawke. Tell me that’s not what happened, tell me—” Everyone was looking at him, all eyes begging him to speak. Hawke couldn’t form the words. The world seemed to be underwater, faces and voices a distorted blur of color and light. How… How could Fenris think…. After all they’d shared, after what had happened to his mother, how… He couldn’t complete the thought. His mind was a litany of broken questions.  


Fenris scoffed, turned on his heel, and was gone. He would doubtlessly still protect them—he had a self perceived duty after all—but that didn’t mean he had to be nearby. He would drift in front of their group like a ghost, cutting down the most dangerous foes in advance before they could reach the rest of the party. He’d done it before when he wanted to be alone. Hawke didn’t see why this time should be any different. Fenris probably didn’t want to think about his apparent inequities any more than necessary—to think about how he’d bedded a monster. Hawke had been relegated to the special place reserved in Fenris’s mind for Denarius and his ilk. And that… that killed him. Hawke collapsed against the stone wall in the warrior’s wake, clutching at his chest.  


He didn’t realize it was possible for the heart to break twice.  


“Confound that elf!” Aveline swore, rushing to his side. He looked in her face and saw his own helplessness reflected there. She gently pried the heavy staff from his shaking hands, helping him sheathe it without words.  


“What did happen, if you don’t mind my asking?” Varric tried to break the tense atmosphere, and failed. He was simply curious, voice lacking in the accusatory tones Fenris had employed. Maybe, just maybe, he was a little worried as well. Hawke found it hard to tell.  


“The Arishok’s Honor Guard landed a spear a good four inches in Hawk’s side, that’s what. He’s lucky he didn’t bleed out before I could get him to heal it.” Aveline felt his brow as she spoke, frowning.  


“What?! And he managed to heal it himself?” The expression of disbelief on the dwarf’s face was almost comical. Ordinarily, Hawke would have laughed, but he was too bereft to do so at the moment.  


“Not completely. There was a reason I was hoping to find Anders, you know.” Varric swore colorfully at the admission.  


“Alright, I’ll go talk some sense into Broody, and then we can fight our way into Darktown. Hawke you just—”  


“No.” He croaked, voice edged with pain and too much emotion. “We don’t have time for that. We have to head the Arishok off while there’s still time to keep this from becoming a full-scale war.” Making sure his friends would be safe was his number one priority above all else. He couldn’t care less for his own life. Especially not now, when… when he was feeling this way.  


“Hawke, you’re not going to do anyone any good when you can’t even hold your own staff,” Aveline chided, gently. He knew she was right, but he didn’t much care by this point. He blinked back the feelings and the hurt, forcing himself to stand on his own power. He was going to see this through to the end, whatever that end may be.  


“Just give me a moment, and I’ll be fine. I can cast another cure as soon as my magic comes back.” He managed to keep his voice even and blank. If he didn’t breathe too deeply, it didn’t even hurt.  


It didn’t.  


“Are you sure? It’s not such a big deal to—”  


“I’m fine, Varric.” Hawke interrupted, forcing a reassuring smile. He pushed away from the wall, brushed off Aveline’s fretting hands and followed Fenris’s path. It was an easy one to follow in his drained state—he could smell the lyrium on the air, burning tracks of madness across the street and his soul.  


No wait, that wasn’t right.  


“You two coming, or am I fighting off the Qunari on my own?”  


“Psh, I’d rather you not. I don’t relish the thought of collecting a Hawke-kebob off the street later.” The dwarf joked, reloading and cocking his crossbow. Aveline stayed where she was, her lips pursed tight. “Come on, lady knight. Our Lord Hawke’s not to be convinced.” She shook her head, smacking Varric lightly for the ‘lady knight’ comment.  


“Promise you’ll stay behind me and avoid drawing their attention for once?” She un-shouldered her shield, flexing her arm once or twice to test its weight as she caught up to them.  


“Something tells me that’s not going to be possible.” He laughed hollowly.  


“Hawke.” Aveline squeezed his arm as she passed—her way of letting Hawke know she was there, that she’d be watching out for him. He couldn’t face her. She knew too much of how he felt, and if he saw the pity in her eyes he’d fall apart.  


“You’re a good man. He’ll see that.” He didn’t acknowledge the words, swallowed the bitterness that threatened to escape him.  


“Let’s go.”


	2. The Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris blusters through the Qunari encounter harboring a sense of betrayal and feeling like a fool for ever trusting a mage. He begins to learn more on the manner of foolishness once he realizes what he's consigned Hawke to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. :D  
> Look, I'm not dead.  
> Here, have this ridiculously long chapter (for me)  
> <3 comments much appreciated.

            Fenris stepped out of the shadows and reached into yet another Qunari’s chest, letting the sharp points of his armor solidify around the creature’s heart. He was even more blood covered than usual, droplets spraying across his face and further marring his twisted expression. He was taking out his anger on the invaders. He was aware enough to know it, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He needed the bodies and the blood. They were a wall to keep himself from going back right now and killing the newly minted blood mage he’d sworn to protect.

            He snarled at the very thought of Hawke, sweeping his sword out to catch another victim’s stomach. He didn’t want to believe that the man he’d mistakenly learned to care for would become the thing he hated the most, but what else was he to think? All he’d needed was a word otherwise from Hawke and he’d blindly believe—he’d turn and apologize right here and now. But when he’d voiced his suspicions, Hawke had said nothing in his defense. The mage hadn’t even been able to look him in the eye, and so Fenris could only assume his theory to be correct.

            The warrior fought furiously as his thoughts churned, the Qunari around him not quite enough of a challenge to keep his mind and memories from haunting him. All he could think about was how much he’d _trusted_ Hawke, and the pain of his betrayal. He was hurt, and angry, and maybe he was grieving, because after this, he’d have truly lost Hawke. What remained of the mage would become a shell to house the demon, nothing more.

            Fenris desperately wanted to leave. He didn’t want to stay here and think about anything any longer. It wasn’t like there was anything to keep him in Kirkwall. He could take nothing but his sword and go, right now. He could do what he should have all along—hunt Denarius down and end this charade one way or another.  

            Unfortunately, the Qunari had other plans, and out of some twisted sense of loyalty Fenris felt obligated to stop them. He didn’t understand it himself. He owed nothing to a Blood Mage and never would, but he felt like he still owed something to the Hawke of his memories.  It was a foolish sentiment, but that didn’t stop him from fiddling with the red scarf still tied to his wrist in the quiet spaces between each fight. And it certainly didn’t stop him from continuing on, cutting a bloody path ahead of not-Hawke and the others all the way to the Viscount’s Keep.

            He paused in his mindless slaughter only at the sight of far too many warriors idling on the Keep’s steps. He was debating rushing in anyway, not sure whether he much minded his odds of survival, when the rest of the group finally caught up. Aveline and Varric led the way, flanking Hawke, while the Knight Commander and that damnable mage Orsino trailed behind.

            “Broody, you waited for us!” Varric cheered jokingly as they came into range.

            “Not out of choice, I assure you.” Fenris groused back, tilting his head toward the stairs just around the corner. The dwarf frowned before following the motion. Fenris knew the moment Varric saw the sheer number of troops waiting for them, because his whole body tensed.

            “Well then.” Varric whistled as he turned back to Hawke and the others. “A plan would be good right about now.”  The words worked like a key-phrase; as soon as Varric had finished talking, Aveline, Orsino and Meredith all began squabbling amongst each other over the best course of action. They kept quiet enough, but it was only a matter of time before one of them got angry and drew the attention of the Qunari guards.

            Fenris didn’t care to pay any attention to their fight, audible or no. He was more interested in Hawke, drawn into himself, avoiding his eyes, staying close to the wall. The mage was pale and silent for reasons Fenris couldn’t comprehend. If anything, he’d think Hawke would have _more_ reason to speak and throw his weight around now that he had the demon-power to back it up. Was it simply that he feared Meredith’s reaction to a blood mage? For some reason, he just didn’t think that was the case. He couldn’t make sense of it.

            “…don’t you think, Hawke?” At the sound of Varric’s voice, the mage blinked out of his daze. His too-green eyes opened, and he looked at them all as if they were completely foreign to him—as if he’d just awoken from a dream.

            “Hawke?” Aveline tested, her expression overly worried. She lay a gauntleted hand on his shoulder, and that was all it took. Hawke snapped back to reality the moment she touched him. He brushed her touch away with an exaggerated motion.

            “I think we need to stop arguing before we draw any further attention.” He drawled, his voice oddly hollow considering the situation. Orisno and Meredith both turned to look at him as he spoke, their full attention trained on him, as if he held all the answers. Fenris wondered if they’d be so quick to let him solve their problems should they know the truth. If he hadn’t felt it might jeopardize the city, he’d tell them himself right now. “Orsino, if you provide us a distraction, will you be safe enough?”

            “I’d certainly be safer doing that then following along with _her_ su—”

            “I didn’t ask about her plan, I asked about yours.” Hawke’s dismissal left the head mage looking rather indignant. His mouth snapped shut with an audible clack. He stared in narrow-eyed indignation, blinking angrily at them all until his better sense returned.

            “I will succeed, and not be caught, if that is what you mean.” He growled, his posture still deferential despite his annoyance. Hawke continued on as if the moment of tension had never existed, or as if he hadn’t noticed it. He seemed so oddly removed from it all, Fenris wasn’t convinced he’d been paying attention.

            "Then we use your suggestion. Distract as many as you can. Meredith, you can charge the remainder with us." She didn't look happy about it, but the Knight Commander nodded all the same. Fenris had never seen Hawke handle the city's most volitile couple so well—he wondered if his new blood magic were to blame for the way they listened to him now, but he hadn't noticed any being used. His lyrium markings usually burned when blood magic was in use—a side effect of his master's attempt to use him as a living battery, conduit to his own ill-gotten powers.

            "On my mark," Hakwe was waiting for the bulk of the watch to be in front of the keep. He timed it to the exact second, then pushed Kirkwall's First Enchanter forward. "Go!" He hissed, and Orsino went. He stayed silent and hidden a few seconds so that the Qunari wouldn't get any ideas to check the place he'd come from, then came at them, shouting and wreathed in fire. His "distraction" killed a few of the slower guard, and definitely sent the bulk of them charging after him.

            "Fool's going to get himself killed." Meredith spat beside him, her brow oddly furrowed. No one knew how to answer her, or why she'd said it. Hawke just shook his head, waited for the last guard chasing Orsino to turn the corner before throwing Meredith the next signal. A cool nod was all she needed before she and her entourage were charging headlong up the steps, sweeping the wounded and the few remaining guards away.

            "Go on ahead, I'll be right behind you," He heard Hawke mutter to the remainder of their party. Fenris had expected the guard captain to go with Meredith's group, but she hadn't. Instead she and Varric were flanking Hawke on either side like some kind of honor guard. Unlike Orsino and Meredith, neither one paid Hawke's order any mind.

            "Have you been able to cast another healing spell? I didn't see one when we were—"  Aveline was fretting uncharacteristically, her hands flitting over Hawke's odd-looking bandage as if to check a wound. Hakwe stilled her efforts, his mouth twisted into a strange, bitter smile.  

            "No need to worry so. I really haven’t needed it." Fenris snorted at the words, looking away before he could be any more disgusted. No indeed. The blood mage could just use the demon to heal himself now. He'd likely never have to heal anything again. Why bother when the blood was so useful?

            Silence reigned, Fenris's skin crawled. When he turned back to the conversation he saw that everyone was staring him down. Hawke looked particularly pained, as if Fenris had actually wounded him. Was the demon wearing Hawke’s face—trying to pull at his heart? Or was Hawke still in there, somewhere? Either way, the sight of that expression hurt. He wanted irrationally to fix it—to take back what he’d said and done before.

            It must have been the demon, to make him feel this torn.

            "Hawke, I know you're invincible, made of stone and all that,” Varric began, the lines of worry in his face belying his joking words. “But it’s not fair to the rest of us mortals if you’re the one who gets to mop up. Can we keep pace with you? I’ve got bets running on our kill counts today!” Hawke allowed himself a quick, true smile before returning to his unusual blank stare.

            “Thank you both for your concern, but I’ll be fine. I have Fenris to keep me safe, after all.” He made the statement as if it were a question. The elf rolled his eyes, striding forward with his sword drawn.

            “For what good it does you, yes. You do unfortunately have me, for now.”

            “Fenris—”

            “Broody—” Both Varric and Aveline tried speaking at once, voices matched with equal anger. He still didn’t feel anything in the lyrium markings, but he felt even more now that he must have missed some spell. Hawke had to be commanding them somehow to make them this oddly protective. They cared for Hawke, certainly, but he was not made of spun glass and they knew it.

            “So you see, you mother hens can rest. I am safe,” the mage spoke wearily, something odd moving behind his eyes. “I need you to make certain that it will continue to be safe up ahead. Please, listen to me and go. We are running out of time.” The knight and the rogue shared an odd look of frustration before turning to do as they were bid.

            “Stay in sight, or I’ll come find you,” Aveline snapped as her final retort, her grip too tight as she pulled her sword once more from its sheath. Hawke waited until they were out of earshot before he looked back to Fenris. He held his staff in front of his chest, clutching it almost protectively.

            “I was lying about having you to protect me. I know you’d sooner kill me right now.” Hawke sounded certain, but his body language screamed out his insecurities. Whether it was Hawke or the demon in control now, he couldn’t say, but the emotions and the actions seemed too natural, too human to be either of them. Hawke had always hid his emotions behind a quick wit and an irritating smirk.

            “Unfortunately necessity denies me that pleasure.” Fenris snarled, hefting his sword once more to step forward. He would not be left behind for the confrontation with the Arishok. He needed to protect the remainder of their group if nothing else. Then, after… he could worry about the thing living in Hawke’s body. He half hoped the abomination wouldn’t follow—would run off and give Fenris reprieve from the awful nightmare of knowing the truth, but it wasn’t so. Hawke followed as Fenris stormed, trailing just behind.

            “You could leave if you wanted.” The mage mused after they’d trekked just a few feet. They marched forward at a pace just a little too quick for Hawke—he kept tripping and leaning on his staff. Perhaps the demon wasn’t used to human limbs yet.

            “No, I could not. Someone has to protect the others from your mistake.” Hawke stumbled again. Fenris was too angry and hurt to worry about him. This was all probably an act put on by the demon anyway to win his sympathies.

            “Protect them from me, you mean.” Hawke’s voice sounded so broken… it killed Fenris to hear that tone, which only made him angrier. He didn’t know why the thing was bothering to keep this up anymore. Or whether Hakwe was trying to play him for a fool or…

            It was so frustrating just to hear Hawke’s voice. It _sounded_ like him. It emoted like him. He didn’t know whether Hawke was in control at all, or whether the demon had taken firm hold of his existence. It was impossible to tell, by the point the mage had accepted the fiend into their life. And the doubt—whether Hawke was sincere or whether the demon was playing him for a fool, it ached terribly. Because if he couldn’t tell now, how could he ever tell? What if it had all been a lie from the beginning? What if Hawke had never cared about him at all—never…

            He couldn’t do this now.

            “You know Fenris, I didn’t—I never actually…” Hawke trailed off before he could finish, his voice oddly quiet. The elf growled, his anger mounting.

            “Never thought about what you were doing? Never realized what the consequences for your actions would be? Never cared?” His last word echoed out into the entryway of the Keep. They’d made it past the front door, and could see the path before them. Meredith, Aveline and Varric were leaving them hardly a trail of wounded and stragglers to eliminate.

            “If you would just let me explain—“

            “There is no explanation for what you’ve done that can satisfy me.” Blood magic had no excuse, and no good end. He could hate Hawke for ruining everything this way. It was only his misguided love of the man that kept him from picking up his sword and slaying the mage here and now, before he could do any real damage.

            “So be it.” Hawke whispered, almost too low to hear. Fenris glanced at him, only to find that the abomination had resumed his walk. The warrior-elf felt somehow that he’d ruined something permanently—as if Hawke were speaking of something more than their argument now. He might have spent more time pondering the oddness of it all if they hadn’t been so close to the enemy and battle. Instead he’d been forced to turn his attention to fighting, slitting the throats of those few left behind, occasionally actually having to focus on combat as reinforcements or patrolling units the others had missed came through.

            They caught up to the rest of the group just outside the inner doors of the keep, where Fenris presumed the Arishok was waiting. As talkative as the mage had been before, Hawke said nothing more to him. Whether that meant this whole talk had been a failed ploy of the demon, or whether Hawke was legitimately angry with him, he could not say. He should have appreciated the silence, but somehow it just made him nervous. He could feel it—Hawke was planning something, and he wasn’t going to like it.

            “Great to see you both in one piece!” Varric was the first to greet them, saluting with a bundle of bolts in hand as he prepped Bianca for another volley. “Though I admit Aveline and I were taking bets on which one of you would kill the other first.” Fenris shook his head in annoyance, and turned back to the fight. Aveline was in too deep, surrounded by too many Qunari for one fighter. Meredith should have been here to help, but she was instead suspiciously absent. He charged in, Lyrium markings flaring and burning across his skin. The pain had become so normal to him now that he scarcely felt it.

            The rhythm of battle was easy to fall back into, and before he knew what had happened, he was standing at the final door, wiping the blood from his blade.

            “Hawke, are you all right?” Aveline had made her way to the mage, and was fretting over him all over again. He knew the woman could be a mother hen, but this was growing ridiculous. The fool was a blood mage—he could easily heal any hurt as long as it didn’t kill him instantly.

            “I’m fine. Did the Knight-Commander suddenly turn chicken and flee?” Hawke sounded oddly tired. Fenris had to close his eyes, block the sympathy and confusion from his mind. He would need to be focused for the next fight. And after this was over and everyone was safe, he could leave. He could get away, start running again, forget about the demon he may or may not still be in love with…

            “She went down the stair to the guard’s quarters. They’d found a large number of Qunari stationed there.  I wanted to go with—to see if my men were still fighting but…” The conversation seemed to be happening around him like a dream. He heard Aveline speaking, but he couldn’t process her words. He was too trained on the damned mage, too tuned to Hawke, waiting for his next word, wondering whether it was true or no, unsure of himself. He had the strength to wonder whether the abomination had put him under spell, but his tattoos still did not burn. He knew this would happen—he knew he should have found a way to keep his distance.

            “Don’t worry, Aveline. The guards are used to dealing with you. I’m sure they can handle a few Qunari.” Hawke joked, trying to inject his usual glibness to the situation, but he sounded weary—run ragged.

            “Thanks. You always know just what to say.”

            “That’s me, charming to the last.”

            “Are we finished?” Fenris groused, tired of this charade. He wanted this over so that he could run with no regrets. Hakwe met his eyes just for a moment, then turned the handle of the door. He strode through without care and without looking back, leaving the rest of the group to scramble behind him. Fenris had scarcely a moment to register what was going on, to realize that it was the Viscount’s head rolling at their feet, before the Arishok was upon them.

            Hawke bandied about with the large Qunari, drawing upon every ounce of confidence and understanding he had. On any other day, he’d have been proud. The mage spoke of reality, with narry a joke to be heard. They talked of Kirkwall’s fate—of Isabella and what she’d done. It meant nothing. Fenris knew as well as they all did what this was going to come down to in the end.

             “I am sorry for my companion’s actions. They were her own, but she is one of mine. That being the case, I cannot allow you to harm her, or this city.”

            “It is too late for that, Basalit-an. The book _must_ be returned to us—and the price for its removal paid.” Whether or not the demon was in control, Hawke was still fighting for the best interests of this city. Fenris could… respect that. For the sake of who Hawke used to be if nothing else. He closed his eyes, found the words he needed. He didn’t speak Qunari well, but he knew enough to see this through. The title of Basalit-an was a boon, as much as Hawke might not deserve it now. Fenris failed to see anything honorable in what he’d allowed himself to become.

            “ _Arishacost. Qun anan etratol._ Hawke is Basalit-an by your own admission. He has the right to challenge you.” The Arishok stared him down, eyes narrowed. For a moment, he thought it might not work, but soon that great horned head was nodding his way.

            “What say you, Hawke? Do you agree to a duel?” He didn’t have to pay attention to the terms to know what they would be. The Qun demanded nothing if not honor in all things—this was the best course. The one with the least chance to lead to war.

            “Well?” The Arishok prompted once more after everything had been sufficiently explained. Hawke actually looked as if he were debating his answer.  

            "Hawke, don't do this." Aveline pleaded quietly on the mage’s left. Fenris didn't know what she was thinking. This was the least destructive outcome. This was the path that Hawke—at least the Hawke he thought he knew—would want to follow. He'd seen Hakwe fight—mage or no, the man was a terror. He could best the Arishok easily. Even if he couldn't… well he was a blood mage now, wasn't he? He'd find a way. There were few things in the world stronger than a demon-backed mage. And Hawke had been ridiculously strong to begin with.  
            "I see no reason not to," was the man's confusing answer. Even more confusing that he looked to Fenris as he spoke.  
            "Hawke!" Aveline sounded suddenly frantic, but she didn't move. She knew she could do nothing to stop this.`  
            "I accept your offer. We duel to the death." A thrill of unease trembled through him at the words. As furious as he was with Hawke, it should not have hurt so to entertain thoughts of his demise. Still, the idea of death hung in the air like a bad omen, like an ill spirit that came when its name was mentioned.  
            "Very well." They each moved to their respective places. Hawke and the Arishok made their meager preparations for the duel before taking a stance at opposite ends of the foyer. The honor guard took the opportunity to give their leader a respectful distance from the fight without being out of reach completely. They were fully ready to forgo the duel and spring the attack, should any hostage or companion try anything odd. Fenris didn’t think they would. Everyone here knew the stakes, after all. He cast his gaze about, searching for Aveline and Varric. The Guard Captain had taken a place at Fenris’s side, alternating between worrying in Hawke’s direction, and glaring death at the warrior who’d gotten him into this. Varric was nowhere to be seen.

            “Did the Dwarf slip out?” He asked pointlessly, knowing the answer. Hopefully he’d left and he hadn’t just decided to hide in the shadows and take a good shot if it arose. That would lead to war for certain. Pity though—perhaps if he saw a really powerful blood mage in action, he’d understand why they were so dangerous. Aveline snarled, placing her shield at its place on her back with angered, jerky motions.

            “Shut up and watch, elf. If your foolishness gets him killed, I would see that you remember it.”

            “Hawke was never a fragile trinket. Now he will be even less so, knowing what he has become…” He growled, brow furrowing. He didn’t want to speak the truth aloud, call it for what it really was. The words seemed too bitter to say. Knowing Merrill was a blood mage was one thing—he’d never cared for her, never really allowed her close. Besides, she wasn’t the type that relied fully on the demon and its deal yet. She couldn’t close her wounds instantly with a small sacrifice. As much as it pained him to say it, she wasn’t as much of a threat. “Why are you coddling him so?”

            “Are you so blinded by your hatred of Denarius that you cannot see the truth?” Her words were meant to hurt, and his emotions were running high. He felt the lyrium in his skin burn, knew it was flashing with his anger.

            “Do not speak of Denarius to me,” he growled, wondering why he couldn’t just tear out her throat and be done with it. She was probably under Hawke’s thrall anyway. Maybe he’d cast the spell before Fenris found them.

            “Begin!” One of the Qunari shouted. Aveline’s attention snapped to the battlefield, and Fenris’s reluctantly followed.  
        Hawke and the Arishok spent what seemed like forever just staring each other down. Neither moved, both waiting for an opening to begin. Then, as if there had been some unseen signal, they flew at each other at the same time. The Arishok began the fight with a charging blow that seemed it would surely cut any mage in two, but Hawke wasn’t called one of the best mages in Thedas for nothing. Just before the Arishok could reach him, he summoned a blinding gout of flame. To the Qunari’s credit, the heat did not give him pause. He followed through with his attack, letting the scorching force pass over him. It seemed to have little effect, but damage was not its intended purpose. The flames were bright—they gave Hawke enough cover to dodge safely.

            “You look a bit warm, let me cool you off!” Hawke punctuated his useless jibe with a terrible wave of ice. It leapt, sharp and unforgiving from the earth in a half circle. At least a few of the spikes were close enough to spear the Qunari through, but he was better than that. He blocked the points with his blade, shattered enough of the ice with a cross-blow to attempt another attack on Hawke. He swept his huge sword forward in a lunge, made to run Hawke through with unnatural strength.

            Hawke met the oncoming blow with a mad grin, his too-green eyes alight with magic and love of battle. It seemed as if he were going to allow the blade to hit, but Fenris knew better. He’d seen the mage do this before. It had horrified him to see, the first few times, but now he was used to it. He refused to acknowledge the tiny bit of worry still eating away at him, watching that huge blade come closer and closer with Hawke looking like he couldn’t care less. At the last second, Hawke blasted his opponent with force magic, as Fenris knew he would. The Arishok and his blade both were sent hurling in the opposite direction, but not before scoring a decent slice at Hawke’s shoulder. Unusual for injury to happen with this particular play—Hawke usually used the earth as armor for protection when he faced down an enemy blade this way.

            “When did he turn his shield off?” He murmured to Aveline as the fight continued. It had become an odd game of ragdoll now. The Arishok would charge, and Hawke would meet him with a push or a pull at the last second, just barely dancing out of the way.

            “He hasn’t been using it for a while. He doesn’t have the energy to keep it going,” Aveline gritted back without tearing her eyes from the fighters in the center of the ring. Fenris frowned. No, that couldn’t be right. He watched the Qunari score another minor hit, this time to Hawke’s outer right thigh, as Hawke forced him to the ground.

            Ah, so that was it. Hawke was moving just a bit too slow—it was a trick he’d seen many blood mages employ. Control the flow of battle just enough, allow the perfect amount of spilt blood and the mage could use what fell to the floor to spring a trap on his opponent. Armor would just make guiding the Qunari’s blows more difficult than it had to be. That must have been Hawke’s plan—must have been why he was allowing the Arishok far too much ground and sparing only a few blasts of frost and flame edgewise. He must have been leading his opponent, waiting for the enemy to get cocky and then he’d put his plan into motion at the last second. He’d seen it many, many times before in Tevinter.

            The fight dragged on. And on. Hakwe only seemed to accumulate more nicks and cuts, his spells hitting with much less frequency. He was barely managing to keep out of the way of mortal blows by now. He was covered in a multitude of trickling wounds, blood running in rivulets and spatters to the floor wherever Hawke stepped. Though things looked grim, he wasn’t the only combatant looking worse for wear; Hawke had made the Arishok fight for every inch gained. His thick, grey skin was riddled with oddly charred rents and tears, his own blood falling to mix with Hawke’s. If the mage were looking for an opportunity to work some real blood magic, he had it. There were perfect blood mage’s traps laid everywhere—Hawke’s blood on the floor in the spiraling patterns they’d twisted through as they fought, Hawke’s blood tracing the length of the enemy’s weapon, Hawke’s blood painting the enemy’s body… but Fenris felt not a spark of demonic magic. His lyrium markings twinged with the lingering echo of every spell Hawke used, just as they always did, but he had not once felt the aching, burning pain that signified demonic energy.

            The Arishok roared, chest heaving with his own breath, eyes wild. Both fighters seemed to be nearing the end of their abilities. Hawke tried throwing in a jet of cold while the Qunari shouted, trying to take advantage of the huge warrior’s distraction. Fenris felt the spell fail before he saw it. Threads of magic wove themselves together at Hawke’s hands, and the echo danced over his lyrium-veined skin. The chill of this particular spell was familiar, if uncomfortable. He knew the way it felt for Hawke to complete it, knew that after enemies were hit it would be easier to shatter them, should charge them _now_ —but then the weave fell apart. The magic just… stopped, as if it had been choked. Frost traveled sluggishly in a few wisps from Hawke’s open palms, but nothing more happened.

            Fenris didn’t understand. There was no way, demon or no, that Hawke would have mis-calculated the amount of energy he’d need to spring a trap. He should have used it already. And if it were true that was really magically exhausted, then all the more reason to use the resource available and make his wounds useful. Any competent blood mage should be able to channel a spell easily with the stuff clinging to Hawke’s clothing alone. Which brought the elf to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe… Fear and doubt sank slowly into his thoughts, throbbing through him with a dull ache far more uncomfortable than his markings ever could be. Did that mean, there really was no demon? Did that mean he’d consigned Hawke to this, stupidly wished death upon him for no real reason at all? His breathing sped, heart in his throat. He couldn’t let himself believe that. Not if—

             The Arishok’s laughter interrupted his postulations, his booming voice ringing through the make-shift coliseum.

            “You are out of time, Saarebas Basra,” he allowed himself the small measure of gloating as he slowly raised his sword one more time, throwing all his might behind a waist-level swing. Hawke had to throw himself out of the way to avoid the huge blade. He wound up half-sprawled on the floor, an easy target. The Arishok raised his sword above his head to ready a two-handed stabbing ark. Hawke would be speared to the floor if he didn’t do something.

            Hawke was capable of ridiculously acrobatic moves, when he felt like it. He’d seen the man do nearly idiotic lunges or flips to find his way back to his feet after a fall or a tackle. But he didn’t seem able to manage any of that now. He was slowly attempting to get up, his arms shaking. Despite his niggling self-doubt, Fenris didn’t understand. Even with the injuries and the exhaustion, he’d never seen the mage move this slow. Had one of those cuts been more vital than he’d first believed?

            “Hawke, move!” Aveline shouted beside him, her throat straining visibly under the volume she’d employed. Her voice seemed to give him strength. Hawke rolled away from the fatal stab at the last second. He used the opportunity granted while the Arishok was busy pulling his blade out of the granite floor to scrabble to his feet.

            “Got a few minutes left yet, seems like, Arishok.” Hawke’s cheery teasing had a lot less effect than usual. He was too obviously flagging. The mage was backed up against the wall to the left of the stair now, using it and his staff to keep himself upright. He was standing leant to one side, brow furrowed in pain as he seemed to hunch around something at the base of his chest.

            The Qunari hadn’t managed a wound to that side yet, had he? Sure a cut to Hawke’s frame here or there, but he’d managed to keep his vital areas protected. Was it an act, or had Hawke…

            Had Hawke been injured before hand?

            “Vanhedris!” Fenris cursed, finally putting the pieces of the puzzle together. It was no wonder Varric and Aveline had been acting as they had—he’d been such a fool. He was so ready to believe the worst that he’d sent an injured mage to fight the most powerful being in the city. Damn it all. If Hawke didn’t come out of this he didn’t know what he would do.

            “Come on, big guy. One last time,” Hawke goaded. His grip on his weapon was loose, right arm almost shaking with the effort of holding it, but his eyes were still alight with some kind of plan. Hawke straightened up, stood on his own power and stared his opponent down. He pointed his staff to the ground, let his free arm dangle at his side as if he’d given up...

            No, Fenris knew these motions, this body language. Hawke was going to try his force magic ploy again. But if he was really so exhausted he couldn’t manage a frost spell… If he couldn’t throw the Arishok, he’d be killed. And even if he did manage, after that final spell he’d be powerless to do any damage. He’d be forced to keep just ahead of the Qunari’s blade until fatigue finally got him killed.

            “Idiot! Don’t you dare!” He found himself shouting, his hands clenched to painful, gauntleted fists. Hawke seemed to hear him. Fenris caught his eye, just for a moment as the Arishok readied his last charge. There was understanding in Hawke’s green gaze, forgiveness… But their connection ended too quickly for Fenris to figure out what Hawke was trying to say. The Qunari came closer with each second, sword carried like a makeshift lance. He was aiming to spear Hawke’s heart this time, and there was no chance he would miss. Hawke watched his opponent come with a grin on his face, threw his hands up at the last second and bathed the room one more time in blinding white blue light.

            Fenris nearly sighed in relief when he felt the familiar twanging pressure of Hawke’s force magic ringing through his markings like a cathedral bell. He’d been terrified for that single moment that Hawke had already hit the bottom of his reserve and that he wouldn’t have enough strength for another push spell. But everything was fine. He’d felt the Hawke’s magic _pull_ stronger than it ever had, and the mage would….

            Wait.

            “No!”He heard Aveline shout beside him, her voice a ragged, straining sound. He looked back to Hawke once the light was no longer brighter than the sun and found the reason for her cry. Hawke had used force magic to be certain, but it was not a push that he’d employed. He’d pulled the Qunari closer, let the sword spear him and follow straight through to the wall.

            “Gotcha,” Hawke pronounced, still smiling despite the pain he was clearly in. He reached up with his free hand and blasted the shocked Arishok with a close range, high-energy burst of cold, completely freezing the Qunari in place.

            Silence reigned. Not a soul in the room knew quite how to process what had just happened. Was the match over? Certainly it seemed both combatants could do no more. Hawke had chosen to suffer a grievous wound. The Arishok’s blade was buried hilt-deep in the space below Hawke’s ribs. The force pull must have knocked its trajectory somewhat—there was no doubt that the Arishok had been aiming for an instant death. By some miracle the blade seemed to have missed his spine, but it was ridiculously broad and forever long. Removing it might kill Hawke if its tearing through his gut didn’t.

            “Stupid, stupid mage,” Fenris chanted beneath his breath, his throat tight and aching. He knew why Hawke had done it. Hawke had needed the Arishok to stay at close range. He was too low on power to cast any spell with a decent range, especially knowing that at a distance there was a good chance he’d miss anyway. He’d yanked the Arishok’s sword arm straight into the wall with himself as a go between just to gain tactical advantage… The thought was maddening—that Hawke was so stupidly selfless—Fenris could just strangle him for it.

            “Hawke!” Aveline shouted beside him, glancing at the Qunari surrounding them as if she was considering pushing past. The mage was too focused on his frozen opponent to notice her. He was still staring the Arishok down, brow furrowed. Fenris’s heart clenched, pulse quickening. This wasn’t over yet. Something more was coming, he could feel it. Hawke was already so near to death—he didn’t know what more the man could manage.

            Sure enough, the room soon began to echo with the cracking of ice. It seemed the Arishok would not be stopped by such a simple ploy. His muscles shifted under the frost, strange eyes roving. Hawke didn’t seem surprised. He let his staff roll from his finger tips to clatter against the floor. With great effort, he lifted his right arm just a bit higher until he could rest his palm against the Arishok’s brow just above his eyes. Hawke’s whole body was trembling with exhaustion and pain by now. Fenris entertained the macabre thought that the sword in the wall was the only thing keeping the mage standing.  

            “S-sorry,” Hawke stuttered, his voice sounding frighteningly wet. “I kinda liked you. Seems like a cheap way to end it.” The Qunari’s left hand shattered out of the ice on the last word. He reached back in an awkward motion, unable to employ the rest of his frozen muscles. Just as he was about to punch Hawke down the blade and into the wall, the mage sent a powerful bolt of lightning coursing through his skull. The electricity used Hawke’s ice as a conductor, found all the soft places in the Arishok’s hard form and fried him from within. At last, the battle was over. The Arishok fell to the floor still half-encased in ice.

            No one cheered, nor did the remaining Qunari warriors seem to know how to react. The collective crowd appeared to be in a sort of shock.

            “Finally,” Aveline hissed, pushing her way passed a blankly staring guard. Fenris followed, his mind reeling with the things he’d just seen. He didn’t know how to process it just yet, but he needed to get to Hawke. He had to make this right somehow. The mage didn’t notice their approach. He’d gone still and focused, his breathing slowly evening out, both hands held awkwardly palm up. Fenris knew that pose. He’d seen it too many times to count. This was… but surely Hawke wasn’t going to—

            “Hawke, don’t—” Aveline’s shouted warning came too late. Hawke managed one last bit of force magic and tore the blade from the wall and himself, flinging it across the room before friend or foe could put a stop to it. The Captain of the Guard faltered in her step, breath catching in her throat. Blood—far, far too much blood fell to the floor in the sword’s wake. Fenris doubled his speed. Stupid, idiot mage! Did he want to kill himself faster?

            Hawke did not fall immediately as he should have. Some mindless determination within pushed him onward. He took a few shuttering, shaking steps to the nearest Qunari and stared defiantly up.

            “I have bested your Arishok in a duel. Honor your terms.” He bit out the words, ignoring the blood that began to trickle from the corners of his lips. He waited until he received a silent nod in return, until all the Qunari were turned and marching toward the door, before he finally allowed himself to waver. Fenris skidded to a stop at Hawke’s side just in time to catch him. Blood was pooling far too swiftly at their feet. Barring some miracle, Hawke would be dead in minutes. He had to put a stop to it somehow. Mind racing, Fenris lowered them both to the ground.  

            “Every citizen here is to go straight home by order of the guard!” Aveline was shouting over the din of excited hostages, keeping them from getting close to Hawke. “Order will soon be restored, and I will personally arrest any who failed to heed me now.” She truly was terrifying. It was a testament to her strength just how many listened. A few men lingered, but began walking as soon as Aveline took a step in their direction.

            She was a terror to be certain, but Fenris ignored her with ease. It was hard to look at anything other than Hawke. The mage was gasping for breath in his arms, his brow damp with sweat. Fenris took stock of the gaping hole in Hawke's torso—too sodden and messy for him to really get an idea of the damage. He shifted as gently as he could, so that he was cradling Hawke with his left arm, tried putting pressure to the wound with his right. It didn’t matter. The damned thing was just too huge—more blood bubbled up around his palm when he pressed down.

            “Oh, for the love of the maker… don’t do that.” Hawke moaned, his voice weak and strained. Fenris supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised the man was still conscious.

            “Damn you, Hawke,” He choked, his thoughts jumbling together so that he couldn’t sort out the right thing to say. He wanted to curse the mage for leading him to believe as he had. He wanted to beg the maker or anyone who would listen to keep this man alive. He wanted to apologize for being such a fool… but pride and pragmatism got in the way. He grasped Hawke’s left wrist with his free hand, pulled the mage’s palm to hover over his ridiculous wound. Hawke winced at the movement, arm muscles twitching beneath Fenris’s grip.

            “Come on, heal it,” Fenris goaded. Hake had had enough power left to tear the sword out of his own stomach like an idiot. Surely he could scrape up enough to keep himself alive.

            “—can’t. Not enough—” Deep down, he’d expected as much. He didn’t care. He pressed harder into Hawke’s wrist, hoping the distraction of his touch would keep the man lucid for just long enough.

            “If you can waste your energy throwing swords about the room you can save your own damn life.” Fenris’s voice was straining, thick with tears he refused to allow to fall. Now was not the time.  

            “Too tired,” he mumbled. “Force is easy. Healing is hard.” Hawke sounded oddly whiny and not a little bit delirious.

            “He’s got nothing left Fenris, just keep him awake for now. Varric went to get Anders.” Aveline marched her way back to them once she felt the hostage situation had been suitably dealt with. She let out something of a gasp when she caught sight of the state Hawke was in. “Andraste’s flaming tits! Hawke, I don’t know what the hell you were thinking but—Maker’s breath I’m going to _kill_ you if you don’t die first.” She was visibly nervous now, her concern eating away at her cool, no-fuss demeanor. Fenris figured that the guardswoman had seen the wound and made the same prognosis as he—Hawke would be gone before that maker-damned mage had a chance to show his face. 

            “Andraste’s…tits?” Hawke tried to laugh, but only wound up throwing himself into a coughing fit. Fenris tried to elevate him a bit higher without hurting him further. “Good to see,” another choking gasp. “I wore off on you." Neither warrior was listening to Hawke now. They were too wrapped up in the sheer horror of the situation, reality slowly bearing down on their shoulders. Aveline spared a glance for the door, fidgeting nervously with her armor. 

            "Where is that blasted dwarf." She growled. Her breath hitched on the last word, barely containing a frustrated sob. "This isn’t going to work. He’s taking too long…” She straightened, paced back and forth for a few seconds. The guardswoman pinched the bridge of her nose just for one moment, as if to stave off a migrane. And then, just like that, she was back to the cool-headed commander he was more used to seeing. “Fenris, the guard just recently impounded a lyrium stash that I hadn’t turned over to Meredith yet. I’ll go get it and… and we’ll pour lyrium on Hakwe until he heals his goddamned self if Anders isn’t here yet.” She’d started dashing for the door before she was finished speaking, so that she had to shout back to him at the end. “Don’t let Hawke fall asleep!” She called behind herself, just as the door slammed shut behind her.

            “…Should have told her…not to bother.” Hawke smiled oddly, as if he’d made some joke. Something twisted sharply within Fenris to hear it like that. No, he didn’t want Hawke to just… accept this. He wasn’t going to let the mage go. He had so much to ask the idiot, so much to make up for. He—

            If… if lyrium was what Hawke needed right now, Fenris knew one way to get it to him. He hated it, but he owed Hawke his help now. At the very least he owed him that. And… aside from feeling like he’d incurred an even greater debt, he honestly just didn’t want to lose Hawke.

            “Alright… Alright.” Fenris murmured, nervous as he shifted Hawke carefully to lean against his chest. He needed his right hand to remove the gauntlet from his left, metal clinking carelessly to the floor. He’d hated it every time Denarius tried this. Having a mage tap into the lyrium running through his skin hurt nearly the same as the ritual that had given them to him to begin with. His thoughts and memories would be thrown back to that moment in time, every nerve burning in agony so hot that he couldn’t remember anything aside from the pain. And when it was over, he would still feel the mage’s touch, lingering somewhere inside his very being. He really, _really_ didn’t want to do this but… living in a world without Hawke would ache far worse than any pain his markings could bring him. He realized that, at least.

            Any time this had happened before, it had always been at Denarius’s initiation. He didn’t know how to start the connection on his own, or he would. Instead, he had to thread Hawke’s hand in his, and pray. He pressed the veins of lyrium in the pads of his fingers to Hawke’s palm, sending a burst of energy through them to try to entice the mage.

            “Fenris, what…?”

            “You know what lyrium is, I’m certain,” he covered his nervousness with bluster and sharp edges. He felt raw, too exposed, as if losing that one piece of armor had bared him to the world. “Take the lyrium and heal what you can.” The elven warrior demanded, heartbeat quickening. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain.

            Seconds ticked by… the pain didn’t come. “Do you understand, Hawke? You need to—”

            “No, I won’t.” His voice was firm. Fenris dared to open his eyes, saw that the fool was glaring stubbornly up at him, his expression clear and unclouded. It was obvious Hawke was fighting just to keep his eyes open. His body had stopped trembling by now—conserving what energy it could. He’d be finished bleeding out very quickly now. Why was he refusing the only thing that Fenris could do to save him? The frustration was nearly overwhelming.

            “Hawke, please,” His control was slipping, voice cracking and hurt. “Please just take what you need. Save your maker-damned life, please.”

            "I won’t hurt you." Hawke's tone was pure steel, clear despite the ominous bubbling that accompanied it. He tried to fight against Fenris's touch, but his body was too weak to move on his own. "I am not Denarius." Fenris winced at the words, Biting his cheek to stifle the sounds that he was afraid might escape. He knew that. Maker, he knew that now. Hawke wasn't, and never would be Denarius. He was too stupidly noble to make a deal with a demon, too good to take help when offered. How could he have forgotten, even momentarily? He'd let this hatred within get the best of him. It was maddening. And now that hatred may have gotten Hawke killed.

            No. He would not allow it!

            "Hawke, listen to me and take what you need to heal yourself. You can be foolishly noble about it when you're not about to die." He concentrated, fed more energy to the markings until he burned like a beacon in the dimly-lit chamber. His nerves protested the action, sensation burning along every lyrium vein like fire, but he was used to it. It didn't matter. Life without this foolish mage would be so much more painful. Any hurt he could endure would be worth it if he could somehow reverse this.

            Hawke gasped to feel the lyrium blazing to life against him. Denarius had always teased him that the sensation was… pleasant for a mage. It had always made him distinctly uncomfortable to think about, but Fenris wasn't concerned about that now. If he could just feed enough of himself through, make it tempting enough maybe the mage's survival instincts would kick in and he would draw without thinking. "Please," Fenris was too close to begging, a complete wreck inside. " _Please_ , Hawke."

            "Fenris," His head lolled back, making it so he could just manage to make eye contact with the elf from his shoulder. "Thanks, for staying…. I'm glad I had you." His former steel was fading. He couldn't keep his eyes open, distant smile drifting across his face. 

            "Hawke, don't do this to me. Don't you dare go!" A sob finally managed to slip past his control, making his voice crack and his eyes burn. The mage just hummed, a dead weight against his shoulder. Slowly, he managed to move his hand away from the temptation of Fenris’s lyrium. With a pang of something bittersweet, he realized Hawke’s fingers now rested on the cloth looped about his wrist.

           “Hey,” He mumbled, only audible because Hawke was so close. They didn’t have long. Fenris’s vision swam. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the words.  “…Love you.” Hawke’s soft, murmured words nearly broke Fenris’s heart. He flinched, as if he’d been physically hit. He couldn’t say it back. Not when he’d been so blind. He didn’t deserve to.

            “I,” The elf choked, his arms rising to curl around the body against his chest. “Hawke _please_ don’t go,” he forced his markings to flash just one last time, praying to the maker for his mage to give in. Hawke didn’t seem to notice at all this time. “Hawke!” he shouted the name as if it were a command, trying to demand the mage into consciousness. His heart slipping, tears finally streaming down his face, he rocked back and forth on the floor of the Viscount’s chamber. He kept Hawke wrapped in a mockery of an embrace, resting against his shoulder. The mage’s life slipped further and further away with each second. Fenris could feel the breaths against his neck, tiny pathetic puffs of air that grew weaker and weaker by the moment. He knew better than to foolishly hope for any miracle now. He’d failed. Hawke was… dying. Would be dead soon. He stayed like that for he didn’t know how long, listening to Hawke slowly, slowly bleed out, unable to do anything about it.

            “I’m sorry,” Fenris sobbed to the empty air, too late now. He was too late for a great many things. He wasn’t certain which one, exactly he was apologizing for.

            “Well that’s good to hear,” he killed the urge to reach for his weapon. Normally the voice out of nowhere would have gotten Varric at least a reflexive punch, but his self-preservation instincts were running dangerously low at the moment.

            “Oh, maker that’s a lot of blood.” Anders was a good deal closer to the entrance of the room than Varric. The dwarf must have been worried, for all that it mattered. “Move over, Fenris. I’ve got to see to him.” The bond shouted as he hurried quickly through the chasm of a room. Fenris felt his blood boil. Anders hadn’t been here. Hadn’t had to watch that terrifying fight, or watch Hawke slowly slip away. He hadn’t had to bear the goodbyes, to sit and wait and _pray_ for help and feel so damned helpless. And yet, he stormed into the room and made his demands as if he could not possibly be denied.

            “You are too late,” Fenris forced the words from between gritted teeth, his grip tightening protectively around his charge.

            “Let me be the judge of that.” The blond demanded. He knelt on Fenris’s left, knocking flecks of Hawke’s blood and the sharp metal of Fenris’s gauntlet aside in his haste. Without preamble, he reached for Hawke. Fenris knocked his hand away with a near feral growl.

            “So help me, Elf. If Hawke dies because you hated Blondie too much to let him do the only thing that might save his life, I will kill you, hunt you down in whatever afterlife you believe in, and kill you again.” His eyes flicked to Varric, then down to Hawke. He’d seen magic do strange and terrible things, but never had he seen it save a person so far gone. Hawke was barely still there. Fenris could only just feel the feather-light touch of moving air against his collar. He wasn’t convinced that he was hallucinating the sensation.

            “Fenris, move,” Anders commanded, temporarily losing control of himself so that Justice shone brilliantly through him, his voice taking on that strange otherworldly tone.

            Fenris absolutely hated this with every fiber of his being. He wanted to gut the abomination here and now. He wanted to scream, to tell them both that they’d been far too slow. He wanted to take all this agonizing guilt and sorrow inside and use it as a weapon against the world so that it couldn’t be used against him any longer. But more than anything, he wanted to keep Hawke with him, just a little longer. And if Anders could provide the possibility, even the hope of possibility for that reality… He straightened his posture, made it so that he was supporting Hawke instead of hiding him away from the world. He looked Anders in the eye and swallowed every ounce of pride he’d ever had.

            “Please, save him.”

 


	3. The Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAH BET YOU THOUGHT THIS WOULD BE THE LAST CHAPTER  
> SO DID I  
> Apparently the characters had other ideas. :/
> 
> Lemme know what you think! This story is starting to feel a bit too rough to me. I'm getting that itch to go back and completely destroy what I've already written again. O_O

* * *

            He’d been _so close_.

            One moment, he was free. He was just on the other side of life—had barely stepped into the safe, painless dark of death. Father, Bethany, and Carver, and his poor mother all waited for him, just… just so close and he—

            Something held him back. It fought with him, tugging his soul back toward life.

“No!” He shouted, struggling against it. “ _No_ ,” he sobbed, selfish to the end. He knew what was right. He knew he had responsibilities to see through, but he just…. Was it so wrong to want to stay here? To fade into nothing. To not have to worry about the politics of the mages or Templars.

To not have to face the echoing rooms, the empty chairs at the table, the silent spaces in the dark…

The force pulling at his spirit became increasingly violent, burning where it touched him, too full of light. Eventually, little by little, he weakened in its grasp, let himself be pulled back into the sensation and responsibility of life. Hawke looked up, and found himself suddenly aware, left gaping in his dream-world form, stranded in the Fade. He was too weak to wake and too firmly rooted in life now to fully die. His whole body—or the dream version of it, he supposed—was wracked with exhaustion and searing pain. When he lifted his sleeve he found burns dotting every inch of his skin, each in the shape of a gauntleted hand. He could feel the marks chaining him, anchoring him to the Fade and therefore to his body and life. The whole venture just reeked of Justice.

            “Son-of-a-bitch, Anders. Can’t a man die in peace?!” He shouted fruitlessly into the void that served as the sky. No answer echoed back to him, and so he let himself drop to the strange, cracked earth. His renewed mind was racing, trying to find some way out. Maybe whatever Justice had done would fade in time. Maybe he could find some way to destroy himself within the Fade. Maybe, maybe….

            Maybe he just didn’t want to keep going any more. Maybe he was so, so tired of all of this. Maybe… he didn’t know what to do.

            He couldn’t say how long he spent, sitting there, staring at his own hands clenched against dream-dirt. Some long-honed instinct within reminded him that he needed to be careful. That a mage in the Fade couldn’t afford to be so sloppy, especially not this far in. He had trouble caring. He half wanted to let something take his mortal shell out of spite. Let Anders deal with his _living_ body then!

            Still, when he felt something _shift_ nearby, felt the demon step into his particular portion of the dream, he simply stood to face it. Spite, or no, exhaustion or no, he could never willingly let a demon into the world.

            _I am not Denarius_ , he’d told Fenris once, and meant it.

            “Why hello, mortal.” The demon’s sultry voice oozed its way into his metaphysical being. Hawke grimaced and shook off the thing’s crude spell. He’d been dealing with her ilk since he learned he had the gift for magic. Even weakened, he wasn’t about to lose himself to a damned desire demon now.

            “Not interested,” he grumbled, channeling all his annoyance and despair to the front of his mind—using it to block her out.

            “I haven’t even offered anything yet. How can you be so certain?” She teased, sliding her way up to him. Hawke paid her no mind, tromping his way over the shattered landscape of the fade. Maybe if he ignored her she’d get bored. Or snap and try to kill him. Either way, end of problem. He felt her claws comb through his hair in a mockery of a caress and he shuddered, jerking away from the unnatural touch. “Little mage, your life hangs by but a thread. You’re in no position to deny me, I think.” She tried her control spell again, pushing herself into his mind. He threw her with only a little trouble.

            “Leave,” he demanded shortly. He hated all of this _so much_. He couldn’t even mope in peace.

            “What an annoying little morsel you are!” The desire demon hissed, her strangely beautiful form warping, turning briefly ugly and wicked in her anger. “So impudent for one so weak! I could kill you with a whisper if I wished!”

            “Then do it,” Hawke taunted, turning and facing her fully. If she outright killed him she’d have no way to take over his body. That wasn’t how she worked. She needed a deal first. If she killed him his soul would just… stop existing. The path back to his body would disappear with nothing to guide her to it.

            He was beginning to think nothingness might not be so bad.

            “Kill me or leave. You have nothing I want,” he told her plainly, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. She laughed, the sound grating against the contours of his very existence.

            “I have something for anyone who wants. That is what drew me to you. Your desire runs _deep_.” She crowed, her claws tracing his cheek. He managed not to flinch when they scraped against one of the burns.

            “Well, it seems your sensor is broken. There is nothing left in life which I desire. It may have missed your notice, but I have just tried to kill myself, more or less,” he admitted wondering why he was negotiating with the damn thing now and when it would just _leave him be_. If he weren’t as truly weak as the demon said, he’d just kill her and have done with the whole thing.

            “On the contrary, my little bird,” She sang, piquing his paranoia with the pet name. Surely she hadn’t somehow found out his name? What else could she know...? No, it had to be a coincidence. “Obviously there’s something you desire so much that you’re willing to die for lack of it. Suicides always _want_ so _much_.” She closed her eyes as she spoke, presumably drinking in his desires. Hawke was determined to give her none.

            “When you can give me an end to fighting and a solution to the plight of the mages, you let me know,” he shot back testily, turning on a heel and walking in the opposite direction again in hopes that she would give up. No such luck. She floated alongside him, keeping up with every step. Her gaze was narrow, calculating.

            “You really think you killed yourself out of want of a better world?” She prodded, apparently curious. Oh joy. He’d become entertainment for the demons.

            “I think I killed myself because I wanted to die.” He insisted angrily. He didn’t bother to add that he hadn’t really killed himself in the strictest sense of the words…. For all intents and purposes it was true. He’d wanted to die. Maybe even if he’d escaped the duel relatively unscathed he…

            Well it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it.

            “Aha!” the demoness exclaimed, cacophonous in her excitement. Hawke did flinch this time. Through his weakness or his annoyance, she’d managed to slip into his head without his notice. He felt her presence, rummaging about, pillaging his thoughts.

            “Get _out_!” He roared, panting as he shook her oily mental tendrils a third time. Her mental-force left bruises in his mind—more strange, unreal pain to plague him.

            “Oh little, deluded bird. Do you even know what it is you’d die to have?” she teased, looming over him. At some point, he’d fallen to the dirt again. He didn’t have the strength to stand any more. His thoughts were racing—all of him trying to find some way to sever his tie to life before she could take advantage of him. If she could slip into his mind again she could control him into a deal. There would be nothing he could do to— “It’s nothing so noble as ‘an end to the plight of the mages.’”

            “You to leave me alone?” he gasped, unable to resist one last jibe. He didn’t know what she thought she’d found. He wasn’t even thinking of it, really. So when she transformed before his eyes, taking on Fenris’s lithe form, he nearly lost it.

            “Isn’t this what you want, Hawke?” She said with his voice, forcing his image to primp and pose lasciviously. Hawke couldn’t help himself. Here he was, just this side of death, battered, beaten and bruised even in a dream, harangued by demons and losing his damn mind besides. And this stupid, pitiful, weak creature thinks it can control him—can manipulate him—by wearing _his_ face? By teasing him, offering him the one thing he knows he absolutely, without a doubt, will never have?

            He burst into laughter, his derisive guffaws shaking the demon out of her chosen shape.

            “Impudent mortal! How dare you—”

            “Oh. Is she bothering you, Hawke?” Merrill, or at least, something wearing Merrill’s face, questioned from nearby. He didn’t know when she’d gotten there or how much she’d seen. He didn’t much care at this point. There was a reason he’d never been terribly troubled by pride demons.

            “I’d say so,” He mumbled tiredly, collapsing completely to the ground and pillowing his head on his arms. He didn’t have to watch to see Merrill take care of the demon. He knew his fellow mage would have no problem whatsoever dispatching such a foe. The sounds of their fighting and demon’s screeching couldn’t reach him past the waves of his exhaustion.

            “All gone,” the elf tittered at him, some time later. He didn’t know exactly how much time had passed, but Merrill was sporting a rather fashionable scratch on her right cheek. The desire demon was nowhere to be seen.

            “Y’okay?” He slurred, squinting at the minor injury in concern. Merrill nodded and helped him to sit up, letting him lean against an odd, stone half-wall he hadn’t noticed before. Hell, this was the Fade, wasn’t it? It may not have been there before.

            “I’m right as rain. Can’t say the same for you though,” Hawke huffed in agreement, pulling away from her touch as she unknowingly echoed the motions of the desire demon earlier and traced the one burn on his face. He gently grabbed her wrist, stopping her wandering hands. Her arm felt solid and natural in his grip.

            “So, I guess you’re the real Merrill?” he prodded, pretty certain he could tell the genuine deal from any imitation. She certainly acted authentic enough, her motions quick and bird-like as usual. Her lips quirked into a tired smile at his question.

            “Probably,” she assented, “unless I’ve somehow changed since Anders sent me in here to get you.”

            “He did, did he?” Hawke grumbled, turning away from her too-clear gaze. He didn’t have to look to know Merrill was nodding. The air displaced by her quick motions ruffled his hair.

            “He dragged you kicking and screaming back into life, he said, but he didn’t have enough strength left to pull you out of the Fade. So… that’s where I come in, I guess.”

            “Ah,” he groused sarcastically, certain now that it really had been Justice and Anders who’d just not been willing to let him die. He hoped he could take these burns back with him to the waking world. He’d make Anders feel _so bad_ when he had to heal them. Yes. It was the perfect, evil plan. So perfect.

            “Hawke?” Merrill’s concern broke through his delirium, “Are you still in there? You seem to be spacing out just a bit.” The mage in question squinted at her, trying to order his thoughts. What was she doing here? Were they just talking about something?

            “If I say no, will you have to kill me?” It was only half-meant to be a joke. Merrill only half-smiled in response. See, Merrill _got_ him. She was the best.

            “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” she consoled as she prodded him to get to his feet. Her tugging on his arms and clothing was insistent. “Come along, Lethalin. You’ve been stranded here too long. It’s time to touch the waking world again, to rest in the shallower realms of dreaming.”

            “I’d rather not,” the words escaped him before he could stop them, and he felt Merrill tense. Her hands stilled, her big eyes searching his, diving into the core of him. She shuttered once, and then pulled him forward into a deep embrace.

            “Hawke, I… If it were truly your wish to slip away, I would not be so selfish as to keep you. If that is what you _really_ want, I…” The words themselves were spoken fiercely, but her arms shook around him. Merrill, at least, might be the only one of his friends willing to let him have what he wanted. But he knew without a doubt that it would tear her apart, and he wasn’t selfish enough to ask that of her.

            He sighed, and pulled away from her embrace, forcing himself to stand despite the aching and the exhaustion. He was just… so tired. Was it really so wrong to want to sleep forever? He glanced at Merrill’s distraught, shattered expression and knew the answer. This wasn’t about him and it never had been. He couldn’t lose sight of that truth.

            “Take me home, Merrill,” Hawke asked of her, softly. The shackles of responsibility settled heavy and uncomfortable on his shoulders once more.

            “You are sure? This is what you want?” Merrill asked as she straightened. He began to notice that her face was lined with exhaustion. He wondered what it had cost her to come find him here.

            “It’s what needs to happen. When has what I wanted ever mattered?”

            “Hawke,” Merrill admonished sadly. She swallowed whatever it was she’d been about to say, closed her eyes and took his hand. “It’ll get better. We’ll _make_ it get better. You’ll see.” Her fingers around his palm were warm and comforting, a contrast to the burning of the wounds on his soul.

            “Yeah, I know.” Merrill’s weary smile was an unspoken promise. Hawke gave in, let her lead him out and back through the layers of the Fade. He didn’t have enough energy left to pay attention to where they were going or how. He spent all his focus on remaining upright, on placing every step, one foot in front of the other.

The closer they got to the real world, the harder it got to keep moving. As the tie to his physical body strengthened, so did the pain. He felt all the reminders of what he’d done to send himself here returning to his dreaming form, one by one like a twisted stigmata.

            “Just a little further now,” Merrill placated, her voice strained as they passed through another gate. Hawke nodded slightly to show he’d heard. He tried to focus on her, on her hand like an anchor around his own, rather than the cut that had opened up on his thigh, leaving his whole body thrumming with a searing cold. He was almost numb with pain by now. It was all blurring together. “Oh, _Creators_. Why didn’t I take up healing when I had the chance,” she swore tearfully, helpless as another laceration tore itself across his forearm. The blood from the wound dripped down sluggishly, tracing Merrill’s warm fingers with red, making her grip slippery.

            He knew there was some joke to be made here, some kind of comment he could toss out about Merrill’s bedside manner or the absurd thought of her strutting about preaching like Anders, but he couldn’t put the thoughts together well enough. Her hand was the only bridge he had, the only escape from his pain. He felt her let go, and whimpered brokenly.

            “It’s alright, Hawke, I’ve got you. I won’t leave,” she sounded so sure and so certain he could almost believe her. She pulled his arm over her shoulders and wrapped hers around his waist, supporting him. “It’s just a bit further. We’re very close,” Merrill repeated, and they took one step, another. He knew she spoke the truth. He could already feel the beginnings of the last wound. It was tearing through him in reverse, starting at his back, ripping through his center until blood and agony blossomed on his front. “Oh, Lethalin!” Merrill cried out, clearly distraught at the sight. She shut her eyes against it, forcing herself to keep to task with a few, shuddering breaths. “There is only one more gate. We can make it. We _will_ make it.”

Another, stumbling step. Merrill was the only thing keeping him upright now. They were leaving a trail of crimson behind themselves, painting the fade with red in their wake. He could feel the demons following them, hungry. These didn’t want a way out like the desire demon had, only his magic, his life force. If not for Merrill he would have let them have it. She forced him forward, even as his will to keep going flickered and died. She pulled, and tugged, and carried his deadweight through to the end, snatched him through the gate just as the first monster appeared in the fog.

            They were just this side of the veil now, in the relative safety of the realm of dreams. Hawke still bled. He half-wondered if he wouldn’t get his wish after all. Was it possible to bleed out in the fade? He certainly felt weak and dizzy enough, certainly felt the same as if he were dying.

            “Please, please don’t hate me for this,” Merrill begged, confusingly, before she sliced her palm without warning, and pressed it to his wound. She bound her self to his, grasped his very being through his blood and threw him back to his body, back to reality. The pain went with him. He rolled with it, twisted under its weight as it roared through him. His soul had gone too deeply into death to come back without consequence, he understood that now. He felt as if he must be burning alive, agony emanating from the deathblow at his middle, searing through his every vein. Merrill’s gentle touch could not reach him, there was nothing to anchor his mind. He simply… lost himself to the sensations, lost his mind and his memory and let it play with him, toy with him as it wished. He was ground into dust, he was nothing. He…

            He….

            Woke up. Just for a moment, just long enough to see heavy, spiked gauntlets, silver tattoos, and leaf-green eyes at his bedside.

            “Hawke!” the vision breathed his name, as if it were a spell—as if it were something sacred. He wanted to reach out toward that person, even if he was certain it must be a mirage. He wanted to feel that touch again, wanted to pretend that he might feel it forever, but he was too weak.

            His eyes slipped closed, and in the shallow dark he did not dream.

* * *

 

            Madness. All the world had fallen to madness. The Abomination healed, the Blood Mage protected and he sat useless on the sidelines, indebted to them both in ways that he could never properly repay.

            He felt he must be losing his mind.

            Fenris paced, back and forth on the balcony just outside Hawke’s bedroom door, hands curling and uncurling into fists at his sides. Hawke would live, but the knowledge didn’t truly calm him. He was trapped in the web of his own panic, fixated on the feel of the mage’s life slowly draining away in his arms—on feeling so _helpless_ and knowing that his was _all his fault_ —

            He couldn’t look at Hawke’s sleeping form without being bombarded with the memories and the guilt. He’d washed his armor and his skin shortly after they’d brought Hawke here, but he still hallucinated the blood on his hands every time he passed into the light. Still woke from every sleep terrified that he’d dreamt some fairytale, that he was really still trapped in that eternal moment on the floor of the Viscount’s keep, feeling Hawke’s pulse sputter and cease beneath his fingertips…

            Honestly, he didn’t know what he was still doing here. He couldn’t do anything to help the Abomination, couldn’t protect Hawke in the fade like Merrill. The way he’d acted, he didn’t _deserve_ to be here. Varric and Aveline knew it too. He saw it in their faces when they had time to visit. They were off protecting Hawke in their own ways. Varric by maintaining and pruning and growing the right rumors, ear to the ground for any potential Templar raids aiming to strike at Hawke while he was laid low. Aveline by doing her job and maintaining the city’s order. Even Sebastian had made himself useful, stopping by with warm food or fresh bandages or anything else they could need (and a prayer or two, of course.) It was only Fenris who had nothing to give, other than to pace about, wear a rent in the floor, and put the poor servant girl on edge.

He knew he should go; he didn’t belong here. But every time he turned to leave he… he couldn’t. Because what if, what _if_ something else happened and he wasn’t here? What if—

            “Hmm… odd. Here I thought you’d be glued to his side like a lovesick puppy.” He knew that voice. Fenris whirled to face that low, sultry tone. He got over his shock easily, poisonous anger bubbling eagerly within.

            “ _You_ ,” he spat, viciously. His blindness towards Hawke had been of his own making but the only reason the conflict had occurred in the first place was currently sauntering toward him from the shadows. “Give me one good reason not to gut you where you stand.”

            “A fine greeting, one I don’t recommend using on the seneschal’s tax collector next time he comes by,” she quipped blithely as she rolled her eyes at him. He could not take her flippant nature now. It grated against him, hurt him in ways he had not thought possible. _She_ had caused all of this, had lied behind their backs for years.

            _She hadn’t had to watch Hawke die. Hadn’t begged to hear just one more heartbeat, to feel just one more trembling breath._

“Isabela, I do not jest,” he choked, voice raw and ruined. The lyrium bands blazed like a beacon in the dim light, tracing achingly over his taught form. He ignored it all with practiced ease and flashed toward her faster than any mortal should have been able. His blade was at her throat before she could even draw her own. Later he’d realize the duelist wasn’t really trying, but now… “Give me. One. Reason.”

            “Look, I’m here now instead of Cumberland like I’d planned. I’ve rid myself of that blasted book, is that not enough?” A bit of Isabela’s true face bled through her hurried words. She looked… worried. Unsure. Good. Let her worry. Let her feel just one inkling of the torture he’d been through these last few days.

            “Your _book_ nearly cost us Hawke’s life,” Fenris, spat, trying hard not to get too caught up in the truth of his own words. He couldn’t afford to be distracted with the Thief herself at blade point.  

            “Only nearly. He lived, right?” Her question was only half-joking. If she’d trekked back from Cumberland with only rumors to lead her, she might not really know for sure. The lines of her face seemed deeper, beneath the makeup. Perhaps she felt the weight of her own guilt. Perhaps that was why she was here.

            He said nothing, only pressed his sword that much closer to the woman’s skin and thought very seriously about taking Hawke’s due in blood, drop for drop.

            “Fenris, please,” Merrill’s voice was weak, but he heard her pleading all the same. Her bare footfalls trailed up the stair behind him. “Let her go.”

            “Kitten!” Isabela crowed, her smirk brightening. If she expected some kind of sympathy, she wasn’t going to get it. He was in perfect position to watch the emotions play themselves out in Isabela’s eyes. Instant relief, then confusion, the bitter edge of betrayal when Merrill couldn’t bring herself to smile back. Good.

            “She should pay,” Fenris gritted, lyrium markings thrumming and flashing to life. Merrill’s hand fell heavy on his arm.

            “So should you. Or do you really think Isabela is the only one to blame?” the mage’s words cut to the quick. He flinched away from her touch, blade wavering. He didn’t want her to be right, didn’t want to feel every part of himself crying out in agreement. He hated all of this, _so much_ , he just…

            Fenris stepped aside, sheathed his weapon with a few, jerky motions. He kept his back to them both, his heart still twisting in his chest.

            “Wait, wait, Hawke lived, right?” Isabela’s confidence was waning, her usual bluster all too fragile. It didn’t matter. Her regret was as worthless as his own.

            “He’ll… live, yes,” Merrill spoke far too carefully for anyone’s comfort. Fenris heard the shift of fabric against stone and realized she must have sat down on the floor. Whatever she’d had to do to walk Hawke through the fade had drained her. She’d been pale-faced and weak ever since. He didn’t understand magic well enough, and didn’t want to. But he knew she’d spent much of herself for Hawke’s sake.

            All the more for Fenris to owe her, he supposed.

            His fists clenched, gauntlets digging into palms

            “He’s not… stuck drooling and vapid forever or something, is he?”

            “No, he’s not.”

            “Possessed by a demon?” Fenris shuddered, felt the spikes of his gauntlets break through the skin.

            “No,” Merrill answered again, after a strange pause. He didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t want to even think about what it might mean. The back of his neck itched with the heat of Merrill’s stare.

            “Oh, for the love of… the way you two were acting…” Isabela patronized them with a strange, relieved giggle. “I mean yeah, okay, the book thing was shitty of me, but it’s not like—”

            “He _should_ have died, Isabela,” Fenris roared, “by all rights, for a few minutes he _was_ dead. He bled for you and your _book_ and I couldn’t do anything but—” He cut himself off, his eyes shut tight, spiked gauntlets digging further into muscle and flesh. The sharp pain at his hands was all he had to hold onto.

            “Oh,” the thief murmured, anticlimactically. If he looked past his blinding rage he could see her, pacing now, her fingers twitching and fidgeting; a signal of her uncertainty. She stepped toward the balcony, toward Hawke’s door, back and forth until she seemed to come to some decision. “And why couldn’t you do anything?” She tested, eyes narrowing.

            “Hawke agreed to a duel to the death,” Merrill answered, before he could say anything more damning. Isabela laughed bitterly.

            “A duel, eh?” She crossed her arms protectively over her chest. “If I’d have known the Qunari might agree to a duel I’d have proposed it myself.”

            “It wouldn’t have mattered. It had to be Hawke. Only he was Basalit-an,” he mused miserably, trying not to think too deeply about his own part in all of this. If he’d kept his damn mouth shut, if he’d realized Hawke had been injured…

            “You seem to know an awful lot about it Fenris,” Isabela prowled toward him like a cat on the hunt, her body coiled tight and ready to spring. She might draw her weapon on him herself if she’d figured it out already. He might not stop her.

            “Oh _please_ , both of you,” Merrill’s strained voice broke through their posturing. She’d pulled her knees to her chest, was sitting curled up and looking for all the world like a child. “Hawke didn’t do anything he didn’t want to. There’s no sense passing the blame around when we all share it.” _That_ caught their attention.

            “Explain,” Fenris barked, not liking the way Merrill hid her face in her skirt. Her words came out muffled and strained.

            “You heard Anders, didn’t you? Hawke _fought_ him. He didn’t want to be saved.”

            “Didn’t want to… are you kidding me? Are you actually saying that bastard used a duel as a way to kill himself?” Isabela cursed beneath her breath, back to her nervous pacing. Fenris only winced. He’d known as much already, hasn’t he? Ever since he’d locked eyes with Hawke, just a moment before the duel began, just in time to see the resolve hardening there and too late to do anything but panic.

            “ _I see no reason not to_ ,” Hawke had said, looking pointedly at him.

            The guilt churned within him, threatened to swallow him whole.

            “He might not have meant to die there, I don’t know for sure. I just know… he didn’t want to come back. Even when I came to get him in the Fade, he…” Merrill’s words were broken by a sniffle. “Look, I promised him it would get better. I can’t make that happen on my own.”

            She wanted him to help put Hawke’s life back together? Give him something to live for? Pah. He had enough trouble finding that on his own. His rage was all he had; it was a drive and a poison. Hawke didn’t need that. Hawke didn’t need _him_. He’d already reasoned that out well enough. He growled in frustration at his own thoughts, finally growing enough backbone to stomp down the stairs to the front door.

            “Where are you going?” Isabela called after him, accusing. He didn’t answer. The door slamming shut behind him did the talking well enough.


End file.
